


Biggest Fan

by earlgreytea68



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8032414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: Eames has a secret Arthur would never guess. It involves a suit-wearing cat.





	Biggest Fan

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking for a file the other day and I couldn't remember what I called it so I basically found myself reading the names of all the files in my folder and, lo and behold, I came upon this one, which I wrote for the fanbook last year. I have no idea what's going on with the fanbook, and this story is too cute to hide any longer, I decided. 
> 
> Thank you to arctacuda for looking this over for me AGES ago!

Arthur throws the last bolt and slides the bar across the door and stands back to survey his handiwork. _Excellent_ , he thinks. Nobody is getting through _there_. 

And then he turns around and there’s a gun being held on him. 

After a startled moment, he looks past the barrel to the gun’s holder and scowls. 

“Eames,” he says. “What the fuck are you doing in my safe house?” 

Eames launches an amused eyebrow in his direction and says, “It’s my safe house. I was here first.” 

“But it belongs to _me_ ,” Arthur points out. “My Aunt Mildred left it to _me_.” 

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law, darling.” 

“That is not actually true,” Arthur says, and shoves Eames’s gun away from him as he stalks past him into the cabin, shaking off his gear as he goes. “That is a misperception. And you are barely possessing it. Why wasn’t the door barred?”

“I like to live on the edge,” says Eames, maddening as ever. 

“Idiot,” Arthur mumbles, pretending that he’s not hopping around on one foot and is instead removing his boots with a modicum of dignity. “Were you tracked here?” 

“I’ve been safe as houses here. You’re the new wild card arrival.” 

“I am not the ‘new wild card arrival.’ You are the new wild card squatter.”

“Not actually new.” 

“Old, then. Old wild card squatter. Whatever. How do you even know about this place?” 

“Oh,” says Eames innocently. “Is it meant to be secret?” 

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Arthur decides. 

“I have a fresh pot of coffee made,” says Eames. 

“After the coffee,” says Arthur. 

***

The coffee is decent. The fire is cozy. Maybe Eames can stay for a little while. 

But Arthur, curled up on the couch under a blanket, eyes him where he settles on the other end of the couch and says, “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m still going to kill you later, when I get bored.” 

“Then I am definitely going to get comfortable because I deserve to live my final hours in comfort, don’t you think? What are you doing here?” 

“Vacation,” grumbles Arthur. 

Eames looks pointedly at the barred door. 

“I don’t think I was followed,” says Arthur. 

“Darling,” says Eames. “Who should I threaten to kill on your behalf?” 

“No one,” Arthur says. “It was a stupid fuck-up. I think Toby learned his lesson.” 

“And I think you learned your lesson about working with Toby,” says Eames. 

“Do you know what I really love in my murder victims?” says Arthur. “The affection for the phrase ‘I told you so.’”

Eames just smiles. 

***

Arthur wakes on the couch, huddled under the blanket. The fire is banked, and it’s freezing in the cabin, and Eames is snoring somewhere. Probably on the bed, the bastard. 

Arthur sighs and considers the graying ashes in the fireplace and wonders how he ended up holed up in his safe house with Eames. And then he wonders how he ever thought that _wouldn’t_ happen. Eames is always everywhere Arthur least expects him. In fact, Eames is always practically everywhere Arthur looks. 

Arthur stands, wraps himself in his blanket, and walks over to the kitchen area. He sets about brewing a fresh pot of coffee and takes stock of the rest of his supplies. 

Then he walks over to where Eames is still snoring in the bed and bangs a wooden spoon around the inside of a pot. 

Eames starts, and rolls over, and falls off the bed, and lays on the floor staring up at him. “What the _fuck_.”

“You ate all of my food.” Arthur stabs the wooden spoon toward the kitchen. 

“Not all of it,” says Eames. 

“And replaced it with _alcohol_.” 

“Darling, you had a shocking shortage of alcohol.”

“This is a _safe house_.”

“In the middle of nowhere! What were you going to do with all of your time if you weren’t going to play drinking games?”

“Drinking games _with myself_?” demands Arthur. 

Eames shrugs from his position flat on his back on the floor. 

Arthur sighs and walks back over to the kitchen area and frowns some more over the state of the cupboards. 

Eames says, “It’s fucking freezing in here.” 

Arthur says, “The fire is your job,” while rummaging around in a cupboard. And then he says, “Oh, fuck it,” and pours some whisky into his coffee cup. 

***

It’s twilight outside, but it’s winter, so it’s not especially late, and it’s very early to be as drunk as Arthur is, but they’ve been drinking all day and Arthur blames Eames for this. Eames and his stupid stock of alcohol. 

And his freezing cold fingers. 

Arthur yelps when Eames steals under the blanket and presses them against his ankles.

“Oh, hush, you,” says Eames good-naturedly. “I’ve seen you complain less when you’re impaled by a wrought-iron fence.” 

“That’s because I’m getting paid to deal with being impaled by a wrought-iron fence,” Arthur complains.

“Fine,” says Eames. “How much to warm my frigid fingers against your warm ankles?”

“You can’t afford me,” sniffs Arthur. 

“What if I throw in a foot rub?” asks Eames, skimming his fingers over the sole of Arthur’s foot, and Arthur refuses to acknowledge that that feels good. 

He says instead, “It’s your fault you’re cold. You should be tending to the fire.”

“How come you get to order me around from your perch underneath the blanket?” asks Eames. 

“Because this is my fucking safe house and you’re a trespassing invader. Why are you here anyhow?” 

Eames concentrates on digging his thumbs into Arthur’s arch and answers absently, “Hmm,” as if that’s an answer. 

Arthur frowns, because they’ve been hanging out all day but they’ve mostly been catching up on dreamsharing gossip, because it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. He says, “Not fair. I told you all about my idiocy with Toby. Now you have to tell me who you were an idiot about so I can gloat the way you gloated about Toby.” 

“I didn’t gloat about Toby.” 

“Answer the question.” 

“I’m here on holiday,” says Eames. 

Arthur snorts. “Do you frequently vacation in my Aunt Mildred’s old log cabin?” 

Something about the expression on Eames’s face has Arthur slowly sitting up. 

“Wait,” he says. “You _do_?”

Eames looks…sheepish. Arthur gapes at him. 

“I like it here,” Eames says. “It’s quiet here.” 

Arthur’s been here a grand total of once in all the years he’s owned the place. He stocked it for possible use of a safe house and promptly forgot all about it until the job with Toby went to hell and he needed a place to lie low. “How often have you been here?” Arthur asks Eames, perplexed. 

Eames shrugs a little bit and mumbles something. 

“How often?” Arthur asks again, demanding this time. 

Eames mumbles a little louder. “Probably a few times a year.” 

“ _What_? _I_ never even come here, Eames.”

“I’ve noticed,” Eames remarks. “Which is foolish of you, considering how lovely it is here. It’s really quite gorgeous in the summer—”

Arthur raises a hand like a cop telling a car to stop and says, “Shut up. You come here a few times a year? What do you even _do_ here?” 

Eames looks sheepish again. “Hang out?” he offers. 

“Oh my God,” says Arthur, as it occurs to him. “Do you bring…assignations here? Have you had cheap whores all over the cabin? Oh my God, has this _blanket_ been involved?” 

“Stop it,” Eames says, rolling his eyes. “Until you showed up, it’s always been just me. And everyone knows that my whores are expensive.”

“You come here a few times a year to ‘hang out’ in my aunt’s cabin?” 

“It’s your cabin,” Eames points out. “I didn’t start coming until after it was yours.” 

“Because you’re stalking me?” 

“Darling, the world doesn’t revolve around you.” 

“This world does, because this is _my cabin_.” 

“I come here to write, okay?” Eames snaps, abruptly ceasing his foot massage. “I just come here to write.” 

“To write what?” asks Arthur, amazed. 

Eames presses a hand to the bridge of his nose and pinches and mumbles something. 

“What?” asks Arthur again. 

“Children’s books,” says Eames, loudly now, as if he’s resigned to this conversation. 

“ _Children’s books_?” echoes Arthur.

“Can we move on from this conversation now?” Eames asks. “Let’s just move on. More alcohol? What do you think about the weather?” 

“You write children’s books?” asks Arthur. “For who?” 

“The public at large,” Eames says. “Mostly. Generally people with children, I would think.”

“What are they called? Have I heard of them?” 

“Do you have extensive knowledge of children’s books?” 

“I know James and Philippa’s library. Do you have any here with you?” 

“No,” Eames says. 

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Do not make me go and dig out my gun and press it between your ribs.” 

Eames sighs. “If you’re going to leave the cocoon of the blanket, you may as well dig through my things. You’re going to as soon as I fall asleep anyway.” 

Arthur scrambles out of the blanket and over to Eames’s messy pile of clothing, digging through it enthusiastically until his hands close around what is unmistakably a stack of hardcover books. Arthur extracts them from the pile and stares at them. There are five of them, and on each one is a drawing of a gray cat with bright green eyes dressed in a suit. The cat is doing something different in each drawing, depending on what the book’s title promises.

And the titles are…

“‘Arthur’s Adventures in Ancient Egypt,’” reads Arthur out loud, stunned. And, “‘Arthur’s Adventures in Atlantis.’ ‘Arthur’s Adventures in Antarctica.’ ‘Arthur’s Adventures in the Amazon.’ ‘Arthur’s Adventures in Asteroid Belts.’” Arthur falls silent, staring at the books and wondering if this is all an elaborate prank. 

It doesn’t seem like an elaborate prank. 

The author name is nothing Arthur recognizes, as he runs his fingers over the embossed letters. 

“The ‘A’ theme has got annoying,” Eames remarks. “I think I’ve settled on ‘American Revolution’ for the next one.” 

Arthur looks at the sharply dressed cat and can’t imagine what to say. 

Eames says, “Are you angry? Please don’t be.”

Arthur looks up now. “Did you name him after me?” This seems impossible to Arthur, but he can’t think of another explanation. 

“You should open one of the books,” Eames says, his lips tipped up in a rueful smile. “Doesn’t matter which one.” 

Arthur opens _Asteroid Belts_ , because it’s nearest. The first page reads, _For A, who is always out of this world_. The fact that it didn’t matter which one he opened makes him curious, so he reaches for _Amazon. For A, my endless inspiration. For A and his irresistible sense of adventure. For A, for flights of fancy. For A, who makes facts appealing._

Arthur looks from the books to Eames and says, “ _Eames_.”

“They’re good books,” Eames says. “In case you’re worried. I really like them, and they’re successful. Kids love Arthur.” 

Arthur says, “It is fucking freezing in this house,” and then he crawls over and onto Eames. “Let’s share body heat.” 

Eames stares up at him for a long moment, and then just says, “Wait. Seriously? You’re… Seriously?” 

“Arthur’s adventures in we-should-have-done-this-a-long-time-ago-fucking-kiss-me-already.” 

“It’s supposed to start with another ‘a’—”

“Annoying,” Arthur says, and shuts Eames up. 

***

_For A, my adventure in adoration._

_For A, definitely my biggest fan (his words)._

_For A, and his dimples._

_For A, my dreamer._

_For A, my totem._

_For A: Will you marry me?_


End file.
